


Of Locks and Keys

by ConsultingWriter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Au!lock, Fluffy, Gen, Kid!John, Kid!Lock, M/M, Puppy Love, kid!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:46:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingWriter/pseuds/ConsultingWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes grew up with his mother talking about the romantic notions of things like ' the key to love' and 'the key to someone's heart.' He never knew what that meant, he never cared to know what it meant, until he saw John Watson. </p><p> </p><p>  <i>The key to John Watson’s heart was a silver coloured metal thing that most decidedly did not look like a key, no matter what the conversations he’d overhead said. It was tied snuggly to the zipper of his Superman backpack with a cord that was just long enough for the blonde to set his backpack on the ground beside him and unlock the skates from his trainers. Sherlock had deduced this fact from the way that John talked about the skates—proud to own them, was very careful in their treatment—and the fact that they were ranked as his favorite possession (which was close enough to being someone’s heart, surely). So, all Sherlock had to do to get John to love him back was get the key; how hard could it be?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Locks and Keys

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, just to let everyone know, the skates John wears clamp to the bottom of his shoes and can be tightened to fit and loosened (so that he can take them off) by a 'key,' this 'key' was pretty much just a small socket wrench that you could fit in your pocket and carry around with you so that you could put on and take off the skates at any time.
> 
> You can see what the skates and key look like [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p02DgHeGdyI)  
> This is also the song that sparked the idea for this fic.

The first time Sherlock Holmes saw John Watson—who was a whole year and a half older then Sherlock, and very cool (and nice, and funny, and he didn’t pick on Sherlock when their age groups had recess like the other boys did)—carefully unclasping his quad skates from the bottom of his shoes, his mother’s words about love suddenly made sense.

His mother was, in the words of his father, ‘eccentric’ (the man often said that Sherlock inherited his ‘peculiarities’ from her) and she would often wonder the halls of their manor home reciting the love poems of long dead poets in a distracted voice that told the houses other inhabitants that she was no longer in the ‘now’ with them but another place entirely. When his mother was living in the ‘now’ she would often talk about keys; ‘the key to a man’s heart, Sherlock,’ or ‘the key to love, Mycroft, dear,’ she would say.

Sherlock never listened, love was gross, and the heart was only interesting when it was beating in someone’s chest—or if he could touch it, he often wondered if it would feel squishy or hard; he was positive it would be hard, because he’d read once that the heart was a muscle, but he needed to do a test (he’d read in one of Mycroft’s books that scientific tests where called experiments) just to make sure—so he’d never really learned what this ‘key’ was. He knew now.

The key to John Watson’s heart was a silver coloured metal thing that most decidedly did not look like a key, no matter what the conversations he’d overhead said. It was tied snuggly to the zipper of his Superman backpack with a cord that was just long enough for the blonde to set his backpack on the ground beside him and unlock the skates from his trainers. Sherlock had deduced this fact from the way that John talked about the skates—proud to own them, was very careful in their treatment—and the fact that they were ranked as his favorite possession (which was close enough to being someone’s heart, surely). So, all Sherlock had to do to get John to love him back was get the key; how hard could it be?

With that in mind, Sherlock gripped the straps of his plain black backpack and marched, chin held high, through the front doors of the school building, thoughts whirring around his head as a plan began to take shape in his mind.

An hour before school let out for the day Sherlock leaned back in his chair, large ruled paper in front of him and a blue coloured pencil gripped tightly in his hand, his plan vaguely jotted out in messy scrawl on the piece of notebook paper.

With a glance at the oversized funny-faced clock—which was completely pointless, as Sherlock was the only one who could read the clock and he found the clown face and oversized hands completely ridiculous—a self-satisfied smile stretched at his lips, he’d finished his plan just in time.

The bell sounded with a series of high, shrill rings that hurt Sherlock’s ears and he frowned before perking up. Time to put his plan into action then. Slowly, but not slowly enough to be considered suspicious by his terribly nosy teacher—she was always snooping through school records and reading over his work carefully, trying to prove that she was right about him; that he was obviously a troubled child who didn’t belong with the other students—Sherlock packed his things away, placing his items carefully back in his pencil box and then slowly sliding that  back into his cubby, trying all the while to keep an eye on the doorway to the rapidly flooding hall without being elbowed by another, eager-to-leave kid.

John had to be passing the door soon—hopefully, anyway. Sherlock almost sighed in relief when he saw the golden-wheat hair of John Watson bob casually down the hallway  as the boy bounced by with his usual amount of—as his mother would call it—‘pep in his step,’ the teacher was starting to give him a look.

With a wide, false, smile towards her, Sherlock swanned out of the classroom and navigated his way through the river of students, only stopping when he was a few feet behind John. He tailed the blonde through the hallways as inconspicuously as he could. (He’d learned that word last month, when Mummy had used it during one of the moments that she was no longer in the ‘now’; he’d asked Father what it meant, the man had given him a dictionary and told him how to spell it with the gentle command to look it up.)

When John sat down on the curb at the edge of the sidewalk, Sherlock concealed himself behind the large brick pillar that the left side of the school’s wrought iron gate was hinged to. Only once the older boy had his skates strapped on and was gliding smoothly away, he slipped back onto the crowded sidewalk, weaving in John’s path, in and out of the jostling bodies that filled the sidewalk.  

 Sherlock passed the driver that had been sent to pick him up with nothing more than a casual wave as he trailed behind John, keeping far enough back to not look unusual or out of place but close enough that he could still clearly see John’s Superman backpack, the silver ‘key’ swaying gently with each gliding shift of a step the blonde took.  

His fingers twitched, palms sweating, and his heart raced at the thought of being able to cradle John’s-heart-key close to his chest and the heart underneath his own skin. Just the thought sent a thrilling shot of warmth through his veins.

A park was where John—unknowingly—lead Sherlock. The young genius blinked as John shrugged off his backpack and carelessly dropped it on the ground beside an unused bench, silver key slapping hard against the bench’s wood before falling to the ground only to be squished by the bulk of the backpack. Sherlock frowned, it was a good thing Sherlock was going to take John’s heart-key if the blonde treated it so roughly; he would treat it lovingly, just like he would treat John once he loved Sherlock back.

Before the bag had even hit the ground, John was skating away. Sherlock paused for a moment and watched, entranced, as the blonde began to smoothly weave his feet together, bringing one foot directly in front of the other, pulling them back out and then bringing them back together, opposite foot in front; it was beautiful, like a bee gathering honey, or watching a successful chemical reaction.

Sherlock watched the blonde skating down the sidewalk that encircled the park’s playground until his back was to him. Then Sherlock made his move.

Sneaking over to the bench from his spot behind an old oak tree that he’d concealed himself behind to the best of his eight year old ability, Sherlock quickly got to work untying the key from John’s backpack, chubby, childish, fingers struggling to untangle the tight knot. Frustration mounted as the stubborn knot refused to come undone and tears started to well in his eyes before one last, desperate, tug managed to pull the key from it corded cage.

With one final look towards the blonde, who was now on the other side of the sidewalk loop and headed Sherlock’s way, the dark haired boy cradled the key to his chest and swiftly walked away from the backpack and bench.

He almost stopped and turned around and went back when he spotted the black car with his brother leaning against it. Instead he lifted his chin and marched forward, intending to walk right on by.

His plan was foiled when the older teen reached out and snagged his backpack.

“And what,” Mycroft sniffed, “Do you think you’re doing?”

Sherlock huffed, “I’m going home. Obviously. Don’t be dull, Mycroft.” It was said as haughtily as he could manage while he tried to wiggle out of the straps of his backpack.

“Oh, so sorry,” Mycroft said, just as bratily. “I could’ve sworn you were stalking that poor blonde. John Watson, was it?”

Sherlock’s teeth ground together and his face scrunched up, the light amount of baby fat he had left on his cheeks pushing up along with it, causing his eyes to squint tightly.

“Leave him alone!” Sherlock demanded imperiously, stomping his foot to emphasize his words.

Mycroft rolled his eyes but said nothing more, choosing instead to open the door to the backseat.

Sherlock glared but dropped his shoulders in defeat and crawled inside of the car, making sure to scuff the leather seats with his dirt covered shoes as punishment. He grinned in triumph when he heard a pained sound escape his brother.

The next day, Sherlock sat by himself on a swing, barely rocking back and forth because he was too short to push off the ground to swing on his own, clutching the lumpy silver key in his hands; waiting for John to acknowledge him.

He stifled a grin when a shadow fell over him and he looked up to see John Watson standing in front of him.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, waiting for the blonde to speak first.

“Hi,” John began shyly and Sherlock bit back the urge to scream, _‘Hello, I love you!’_ at him in return. “I’m John.”

Sherlock looked up from under his lashes, “Sherlock.”

The older boy shuffled his feet nervously before clearing his throat “I heard that you’re really smart, and could find almost anything.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock interrupted. “I’m a genius and I can find exactly anything.”

As soon as the words were out Sherlock wanted to kick himself. Now John would never love him. Instead the blonde perked up.

“Really?” He asked excitedly “Could you find the key to my skates?”

Sherlock cocked his head, why did John want it back? It was his now and John couldn’t have it. He was going to say no, had opened his mouth to do so, in fact, but the hopeful look on the blonde’s face caused him to pause.

“What’s in it for me?” he asked instead.

John’s face fell but then scrunched up—no baby fat on his cheeks to make him look like a hairless squirrel, Sherlock thought almost jealously—in thought before breaking into a smile.

“I could be your friend, if you’d like?” he offered timidly and Sherlock almost fell off the swing in his excitement.

“Really?” He half-yelled before he could stop himself. “You’ll be my friend?”

John—beautiful, bee-collecting-pollen-beautiful, John—nodded, no longer timid; but suddenly Sherlock was.

He bit at his lip and clutched and the large chains of the swing, “I’ve never had a friend before.”

John’s eyes widened in childish disbelief “Never?”

The younger boy swallowed but shook his head no.    

“Then I’ll be your best friend,” John proclaimed “Even if you don’t find the key to my skates. I’ll be your best friend always!”

Sherlock smiled happily. John was his friend! Which his mother was always saying was the ‘path to love’ and that ‘love was just a friendship on fire.’

He couldn’t wait for theirs to catch fire. He hoped it would be like a spontaneous combustion. Or a firework.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought!


End file.
